Goes Down Easy, Sneaks Up On You Fast
by Annie Blythe
Summary: Sam, Andy, and the woo girl's drink of choice. Post-3.06 silliness. Sam POV.


_A whole bottle of tequila, and _I'm_ a woo girl."_

Inspired by a line from 3.06. It's silly and goofy and nothing of consequence. Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue_.

* * *

He lazes on the couch, body weary from the chaos of shift and the small talk that accompanies housewarmings. The phrase s_kin of your teeth_ echoes noisily in his brain as he slumps against the cushions, and he releases a slow breath, recalling Andy's face in the locker room.

For a moment, all he can do is offer the universe a silent _thank you. _Forgiveness is a thing that has never come easily to him, and he's grateful that Andy is cut from a different mold. She doesn't hold his stupidity against him, at least not tonight. The manila folder that chronicles Claire's adult life – further testimony of his McNally-related screw-ups – lies in the bottom of a trash can at the Barn.

He gave Andy a ride home, and the rest of the evening has been spent in a quiet corner of her condo, asking Nash about her rotation and watching in amusement as Peck and Jerry shotgun beer like co-eds at a tailgate, adulthood and badges and appropriate settings be damned.

(Peck won, pale arms pumping in victory as she flipped the empty can into the kitchen sink. _Surprise _was not a thing Sam felt.)

He catches Andy's laugh from the doorway as she bids Diaz goodnight, something about fondue and _repacking with care_. A moment later, the door clicks quietly, and he hears the soft pad of her footsteps as she approaches the sofa. He opens his eyes slowly, squinting against the backdrop of tea lights.

"You throw a pretty good party, McNally."

She shakes her head, jumping onto the couch with a quiet _oomph _as her body hits the cushions. Her legs slide across his lap as she smiles, fighting a yawn.

"Mm, I'm not sure how true that is. My contributions consisted largely of baked goods, and I managed to incinerate the cake, so…" She sighs quietly, picking at a seam on the couch. "But, uh, it was nice to see…everybody."

Her tone suggests that by _everybody_ she really means _somebody_, but he lets it slide, taking his cue from her silence. Her eyelids flutter closed, and he thinks about calling it a night, fatigue settling in his bones as he stares at her motionless form. Gliding a hand across her ankle, he shakes her leg gently.

"Bedtime, sleepyhead."

"Hmm? Why, you tired?" she manages, yawning again. Not waiting for an answer, she forges ahead. "Me too. But we're going to have to rally."

In the next moment her eyes pop open, and she grins. "Apartment isn't going to clean itself… Well, not until _Smart House_ becomes a reality. Which, _okay_, I thought would happen by 2012."

He lifts a single brow, bewildered. One McNally belly laugh later, and he finds their hands clasped as she tugs him toward the kitchen. Shuffling breakfast cereal and a box of instant oatmeal aside, Andy moves inside the pantry, pointing to a tall, glass bottle.

"Temporary housing during the party," she explains, looking at him carefully. "I didn't know where to put it. Jerry didn't need any help looking like... Well, Jerry."

She grins once, slow and easy. "But _that_, right there? That's one way to rally."

He hazards a glance at the label before lifting his gaze, eyeing her speculatively. "I think we're talking about two different kinds of _rallying_, McNally." Sliding a finger through her belt loops, he tugs her forward. "You've got beautiful floorboards. I'd hate to have to pick you up off 'em later."

She smiles, warm hands resting on his chest. "Case-by-case basis. I can think of a few reasons why you might enjoy that."

The laugh catches in his throat, and he shakes his head. "Where'd you get it?" he asks, nodding toward the bottle.

"Well, Gail reminded me that her presence is enough of a _gift_, but she's sworn off tequila in recent months – for, um, _suspected_ but unconfirmed reasons – so, yeah. She brought this, too."

He slides a hand over the curve of her hip, drawing her closer. "And it's a good idea to break this out tonight because…?"

She laughs, chin tipped back and mouth falling open. "Maybe I want to see you _woo_, Swarek."

He's distracted by her pink, wet tongue; the pearl-white smile he associates with Timmies' hot cocoa and lazy Saturday mornings and a certain dark corner of the Penny. It takes him a moment to process her words.

"S'cuse me?" he murmurs, brows sky-high and fingers stilling on her belt loops.

She smiles brightly, nodding toward two shot glasses on the kitchen counter. "And I quote: 'A whole bottle of tequila, and _I'm_ a woo girl.'"

His face registers vague disbelief. "We got an entire apartment to clean, hotshot," he reminds her, sweeping her hair off her neck. "That on your radar?"

"Sam..." she drawls, fingers dancing across his shoulder. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Andy…" he echoes, dragging out the syllables. He returns her prodding stare, unimpressed. "I spent the night drinking beer; there's no way I'm switching to tequila now."

"Not even one drink?" she wheedles. Her tone sends him into a spiral of memories, _one more lead _and_ ask me to stay_ and_ we have three months to make up for, Sam_. (Not that he's ever needed convincing.)

His gaze falls to her lips, and she pounces. "Just one, Sam. It's my party…"

"And you'll cry if you want to?" he interrupts smoothly, sliding his hands across her lower back. He feels a familiar prickle in his gut, a warning voice that sounds alarmingly like Oliver: _Easy there, Sammy-boy. Treacherous waters, and you're whipped or pretty close to it_.

In an effort to quell Shaw's silent sagacity, Sam tries for reason. "I think, uh, today has been crazy enough without an early-morning tribute to the porcelain gods."

"Mm, don't be a fun sponge," she admonishes, fussing with his collar. "This is a celebration. And we don't have to go _crazy_."

The next moment, she shifts her hips against him purposefully, lips widening as she bites back a grin. "Sure I can't convince you?"

He stills, the gears slogging into motion as his brain connects the dots. His eyes sweep across her face, narrowing as he catches a hint of her triumphant grin.

"What, no smart remark?" she questions, leaning into him further. Her voice has a decidedly sing-song lilt, his warning that she is about to pull out big guns. "I have a lime in the fridge. And I'm sure we can find _some_ use for the salt shaker…"

(Her smile ignites something in him, and honestly, he knows it's stupid, knows _he's_ stupid, but...)

With a wave of his white flag, he takes the bait.

"You want wooing?" he murmurs, the challenge implicit in his tone. He drops his voice, lips brushing her ear teasingly. "Sure you know what you're getting into?"

"Yeah, I bet you've _wooed_ a time or two before," she says seriously, pulling back to stare at him. "Sure you know what you're getting _into_?"

Anticipating his eye roll, she breaks into a grin, shrugging. "What? I've learned to anticipate your word puns. You've gotta find a new shtick, Swarek."

"Yeah?" he replies, cocking an eyebrow. "Pretty sure you'll be singing a different tune by the end of the night."

"Promise?" she teases, ducking away from his hands and bouncing toward the couch, bottle in hand.

"Man of my word," Sam returns easily, following her to the couch. "Mess will hold for a little while."

He watches her line up the glasses, one hand uncapping the bottle as she offers him a lime wedge. With a grin, she licks a stripe across her wrist before dusting the salt shaker over it.

"Start off easy, yeah?" she asks, holding up her hand. Her face is a pretty shade of pink, alcohol and earnestness mixing in a way that tends to knock Sam off his feet. "Or did you want me to hold the lime, too?"

He finds himself a little lost in her, the curve of her neck and a grin that won't quit. Pausing at the last second, he drops his lime on the coffee table. He can't pinpoint the exact reason why he wavers, only that he doesn't want _this_ to be an escape from… Whatever. Party or not, they _have_ had a long day.

She notices his hesitation and sets her glass down, smile fading to concern.

"Hey," she says softly, catching him by the back of the neck and tugging him forward. "We're okay. Earlier I... Well, I know _why_ you did it, and I appreciate your apology, Sam. I do."

(Intuitive, as always.)

She keeps her voice light, smiling encouragingly. "We'll navigate the next few weeks together, alright?"

He finds himself nodding, looking deep in her eyes.

(Thinks he could probably _keep_ looking. Minutes and hours and days and...)

"_One_ drink," he finally responds, catching her wrist. His voice is a little rougher than normal, a warmth spreading in his chest, and he tries to deflect the emotion. "We'll save the woo girls routine for another night, eh?"

She pauses thoughtfully before nodding her head in agreement. "Alright. But only because it's a cultural thing, and we should experience it fully." She gazes at him, the corners of her lips twitching in amusement. "FYI, we're gonna have to break out the skinny jeans again. Maybe some glow sticks or cowboy hats; depends on location."

He sucks in a breath, holding back a chuckle as he pretends to consider. "Mm, I don't know... I don't really have the thighs for skinny jeans."

A breathless laugh escapes, the sound reverberating in his temple as she wraps long, bronzed arms around his neck. "Lucky for you, tequila conquers any clothes-related hurdles."

His face bears the shadow of a smirk, and he considers a number of groan-worthy responses. In the end, he settles for a simple "Is that right?" and hauls her against him. His mouth seeks hers, cool breath and lips tasting faintly of alcohol.

She's a little silly tonight, a little goofy. It's a welcome side after her earlier - warranted - burst of anger. Not for the first time, he recognizes how messy this _thing_ is, how each of them is cautious and stubbornly headstrong in turn. He thinks, not for the first time, that he might be halfway to love with this girl: Her big heart and wide smile, those dark eyes and that smooth, soft skin. The way she chases down leads in the field, eyes focused and limbs primed for motion; the way she hums to the bathroom mirror in the morning, bare feet tapping softly on the tile floor. The minty taste of her mouth and the slope of her spine and the way her body trembles when she laughs. All of it.

She pulls back after a moment, hand brushing his cheek affectionately as she studies his face. "Thanks for humoring me. You're a good sport."

He clears his throat, fingers sliding through her thick, brown hair. "Least I can do."

A smile lights her face, gone in a flash. "Yeah, probably."

He curls a hand over her chin and pulls her closer, glasses forgotten on the table.

(_More than halfway, Sammy,_ his conscience whispers.)

* * *

**Author's Note:** As you may have noticed, readers, I've been "unloading" a lot of chapters/stories on FF this weekend. As I mentioned in "Fifteen's Footnotes," much has been happening in my personal life, and unfortunately, I can't predict my posting schedule. I will certainly update when I have the time, but it won't be with the frequency to which I've (and you've) grown accustomed. As a parting offering, I've tried to post a number of updates this weekend. I do intend to complete my WIP, "Brotherly Love" – The story is already outlined and remains close to my heart. (Canon Zoe will not prevail if I have anything to say about it!) I never intended for the chapters to be so spaced out, and for that, I apologize. Multi-chapter stories require significantly more time/effort/headspace than oneshots, and I simply haven't been able to devote time appropriately.

In the meantime, please know that I am utterly grateful for your feedback and support. It's a pleasure to write for RB fans who are such kind, invested, lovely people.


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